I meet people
all the time who tell me that after a bad experience with the Irish airline,
they will never ever fly Ryanair again.

But there
are millions (just check the booming Ryanair passenger figures (nearly 80m
annually) who rate the airline as the best thing out of Ireland since Guinness.

I don't have such
a clear cut view (and Marmite is something I can take or leave). There's a lot
about the carrier I hate: the way it always tries to chisel extra cash from you
with a bevy of add-on charges - some levied openly, others more cunningly
(punishing people with very expensive penalties for honest mistakes during the
hugely complex booking process is shameful).

But when it comes
to the important matters: getting you to your destination cheaply and on-time, Ryanair
is about as perfect as you can get.

Flying to Treviso
last week, the flight on both outward and return sectors arrived early. The
check-in and boarding processes were a model of smooth organisation.

I don't think
I've ever been on a Ryanair flight that hasn't had that bloody bugle trumpeting
'another on-time flight'.

Thirty
years ago when scheduled flights were the privilege of a wealthy elite, in
those days I was campaigning for open airline competition and we imagined that
a low-fare airline would look something like the fondly-loved Laker Airways run
by its ever-smiling and ever-popular creator Freddie Laker.

Nobody would then
have guessed that the cheap fare business would come to be dominated by an
Irish airline run by an acerbic accountant whose bonhomie is reserved for his
expensive bloodstock rather than his airline's customers.

But then
things never turn out either as we hope or expect.

Nice things
can come in ugly packages.

We are
often asked to hate the sin and love the sinner. When it comes to Ryanair my
affection is wholly for the sin: God Bless Ryanair and all who sail in her…

26 June 2013 6:58 PM

As renowned friend of the royal family and supporter of the fast food industry Morrissey once sang, "there is a place in hell for me and my friends" – but it is hard to think of a more infernal situation than the one in which Edward Snowden currently finds himself.

The US administration may be hoping to impose all manner of dreadful punishments on the former CIA operative after he dashed to Hong Kong and revealed lots of naughty information about how governments like to listen to our conversations and know what we had for dinner yesterday – but I can think of few things more hellish than the idea of an indefinite stay inside a Russian airport. Satan himself would consider this "a bit much".

The planet's most wanted fugitive (unless that is Julian Assange. It is so hard to be sure about these things) is currently – according to reports – holed up in a transit area of Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport as he plans his next move on a sell-out world tour that has taken him from sunny Hawaii to the gleaming Far East and now to northern Europe.

There, he is enjoying all the benefits of cross-border limbo, like a more cyber-savvy version of Tom Hanks in 2004 movie The Terminal. Which is to say that, according to international law, he is not technically in any particular country – because, in this case, he has left China but has not officially entered Russia. Instead, he is existing in a curious vacuum beyond the reach of anyone who wants to slap his wrists and put him in prison.

The trouble with this plan is that, if you are going to spend long hours skulking in a legal black hole, the last place you should want to try this is in a Russian airport. I cannot recall every detail of the last time I passed through this Moscow air hub, but this must mean that it did not strike me as a transport paradise where you could while away the rest of your life (or even a few hours) drinking fine wines and dining on fresh-shucked oysters.

Like most Russian airports, Sheremetyevo has all of the below:

(1) Shops where you can pick up a set of wooden dolls where – in an update of the classic design of a mother and her incrementally smaller children – the figures are those of notable premiers of the Soviet Union and Russia. Thus you find Brezhnev tucked into Putin and Krushchev stuffed into Gorbachev. To be fair, this is an inventive souvenir, and a quirky memory of any trip to the globe’s biggest country – but is unlikely to amuse you for more than a few minutes, and probably not for the remainder of your time on Earth.

(2) Lots of uniformed men who are very good at checking passports, and very thorough about it too, but are not so good at smiling, polite conversation or off-the-cuff witticisms.

(3) That insistent smell of cigarettes that comes from people smoking in enclosed spaces – which is always slightly unnerving in airports, what with all that flammable jet fuel.

Of course, by the time you read this, Mr Snowden may no longer be cooling his boots and his special laptop in Russia, and may have flitted across the planet to a location where there is a little less vodka in the duty-free zones, such as Ecuador or maybe Cuba.

But if he is intending to spend any more of his youth loitering in a place of thick glass and strip lighting while rummaging in his bag for his passport, I would suggest the following:

Ibrahim Nasir Airport: There may be a few question marks over human rights and the democratic process in the Maldives in the wake of last year’s coup d’etat, but the island chain’s main point of international arrival offers lovely views of Indian Ocean sun and sand – even if you are waiting inside, hiding next to the soft drinks machine. It sits on its own island, Hulhulé – and from here you can watch bright red seaplanes as they prepare to take-off for the luxury resorts that decorate the nearby waters. Fugitive rating: 6/10

Vance W. Amory Airport: For the wanted man seeking a sleepy vibe, the key airport (indeed, the only airport) on Nevis might be a good choice. It occupies the northern edge of this pin-prick Caribbean outcrop, with pleasing views across The Narrows to the next-door island of St Kitts. Admittedly, there is little in the way of snacking facilities, and you cannot quite see Antigua, which lies 50 miles to the east. But you know it is there, and that is the crucial thing as you tuck into another bag of crisps. Fugitive rating: 4/10

Barajas Airport: Madrid’s touchdown hotspot would be the aesthete’s choice, thanks to the architectural splendour of its Terminal 4 – a sweeping delight of curved wood and copious natural light that was designed by Lord Richard Rogers, and opened in 2006 (see above). A feast for the eyes as you dawdle in never-never-land, it also has top-notch retail options selling lovely bottles of Rioja – and the wifi service is excellent on the off-chance that you need to crack open any more of America’s hugest secrets. Result. Fugitive rating: 10/10

21 June 2013 11:58 AM

Imagine Venice with an admission gate where you are charged almost £30 to enter.

It could be about to happen.

Once again the idea of charging people to visit Venice has reared its head.

Anna Somers Cocks, chair of the London-based charity Venice in Peril, has said that tourists should be forced to buy 'admission' tickets at a cost of €30 each.

She has described the measure as a 'congestion charge' to limit the number of tourists able to visit the city. 'It’s a lot easier to do with motor cars because they have licence plates,' Ms Somers Cocks said.

Venice welcomes around 25 million visitors a year, with the daily total reaching almost 100,000 in the peak season. Over 75 per cent of visitors are day trippers who head for St Mark’s Square and block the main thoroughfares, placing a huge strain on the medieval city’s fragile infrastructure.

The question of charging tourists an entry charge was first raised in 1989 when Venice was flooded with day trippers from the former Eastern Bloc countries who were suddenly able to visit Venice for the first time. The causeway to Venice was chocked with coaches from Czechoslovakia and Hungary.

The situation became critical that summer when Pink Floyd performed a live gig from a pontoon in the lagoon. The weight of visitor numbers and the force of the loud music caused physical harm to Venetian buildings, forcing people to think the unthinkable – it was time to keep people out.

The original plan was to charge coaches for crossing the causeway, but this idea was eventually dropped.

Now, as well as the flood of coaches, Venice also has to cope with giant cruise ships which not only bring several thousands of extra visitors each year, but generate propeller wash , and damage waterfront structures with their comings and goings.

Clearly something needs to be done.

But is an admission charge either sensible or fair?

The anxiety is that places like Venice may become havens for the wealthy – the less well-off will be excluded.

But to some extent, the poor are already being kept out by the high prices involved in making a visit to the city. Buy an ice cream in the tourist heart of the city, and you feel as if you have been mugged.

'Soak the Rich' has been a tried and tested axiom of impoverished governments all over the world.

But if the rich are able successfully to avoid paying income tax, getting out of paying the Venice Levy will probably not cause them much bother either.

18 June 2013 6:33 PM

As is the occasional wont of this blog, we will start this latest entry with a quiz question.

Take a look at the photo at the top of this page. Can you guess the location of the beach?

There are a few visual clues here: the palm trees standing spikily in the foreground, and the foliage around them that hints discreetly at the tropical; the light golden texture of the sand; the general absence of people – by my count there are just five day-trippers in view, including the small child at left of shot; the light smattering of yachts and pleasure boats moored elegantly just off the shore; the hazy blueness of the sky on a pleasant afternoon.

All this suggests – probably – some suitably sun-kissed crescent in one of the less busy portions of the Caribbean. A hidden enclave in Tobago, perhaps. Or possibly Grenada.

What if I throw in the fact that the name of this soft little cove is ‘Belvoir’?

Ah, you will surely think. This sounds Gallic. So maybe this slice of paradise lies somewhere on the edge of Guadeloupe – or tucked away in the remote waters of French Polynesia. And those shiny mini-ships bobbing in summer warmth – millionaires' playthings, presumably.

OK, enough of this teasing. It's time for the grand reveal. The beach in question is found rather closer to where you are sitting now – assuming you are reading this in Britain – than any far-flung corner of the Caribbean or distant outcrop in the middle of the Pacific.

The above photo was taken three weeks ago, on a warm Saturday afternoon, on the east coast of Herm. That's Herm in the Channel Islands – the tiny nugget of land that is wedged between Guernsey (three miles to the west) and France (some 28 miles to the east – specifically Normandy, where the Cherbourg Peninsula pushes itself northwards). And that's Herm whose place is in the English Channel – rather than the Caribbean Sea.

I've touched before in this column on the idea that when it comes to travel, it is very easy to stare in awe at the wonders beyond the horizon while failing to notice the gems that wait at our feet. But the sharp end of this argument flipped around and poked me in the ribs last month when I took a first ever trip to the Channel Islands – and found that, on a day of fine weather, the right-hand flank of Herm can have rather more in common with the areas of the planet that dominate our fantasy holiday lists than the classic image of the grey UK seaside. (And yes, as a quick note, I do know that Herm is not a part of the United Kingdom, or, indeed, the EU – a differentiator that contributes to its rare charm.)

Pic: Corbis

Of course, Herm can scarcely be described as 'undiscovered'. But it can be described as 'overlooked'. In some ways, this is thanks to its size – it is the smallest of the five main Channel Islands, lagging behind Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark – and its relative lack of accessibility. Those wanting to reach it must take a ferry from St Peter Port, on the east coast of Guernsey – a service which bobs across the three-mile gap between the two isles in about half an hour, and pulls to land at a stone jetty that looks barely big enough to cope with a larger than average rowing boat (though it performs its job perfectly well).

And when they arrive, visitors find, well, not a great deal, really. Herm has a permanent population of just 60 people, and little in the way of infrastructure. Certainly, there are no roads, because cars are banned (although the residents zoom up and down the network of pathways on quad bikes), and the island’s buildings are notable mainly for their scarcity. There is one key hotel (the White House Hotel – www.herm.com/hotel), a clutch of cafes and a quietly inviting pub (The Mermaid – www.herm.com/mermaid). And that is that.

The upside to this out-on-a-limb vibe is the scenery that you encounter if you walk in just about any direction – but particularly from west to east across the middle of an island that is little more than half a mile wide (and only a mile-and-a-half long from north to south). The eastern side of Herm throws out not just Belvoir Bay, but the equally idyllic curve of Shell Beach, at the north-eastern corner, where you can idle over ice cream at Shell Café.

It is – if you will forgive the sudden surge into sepia – a place that is not so much old-fashioned as not-very-fashioned-at-all. It is an island that might have dropped out of the recesses of Enid Blyton's mind in an era when children played in groups of four (plus their dog), pined for ginger beer and had regular encounters with smugglers who were neither very good at concealing their cargo, nor especially threatening when disturbed.

That said, if you head to Herm this summer, you probably won't bump into the Famous Five – or any of the Russian oligarchs whose presence might be mooted by the floating boys’ toys caught in the photo that we were discussing earlier. But you will find a sense of calm, some of the loveliest vistas anywhere on 'home' turf – and a reminder that, sometimes, the best travel experiences do not have to involve nine hours on an aircraft.

14 June 2013 11:24 AM

French air traffic controllers earn around £100,000 a year. It’s a responsible job, I grant you; they
probably work some unsocial hours, there are incongenial working conditions
looking at a monitor all day and there would certainly be a lot of people very
upset and very dead if they made a mistake.

But other people have equally responsible jobs
and equally difficult working conditions – bus drivers, for example. What do
bus drivers earn? When I last saw an ad on the back of a bus offering
employment opportunities, it was something like £14,000 a year.

Actually I don’t begrudge French air traffic
controllers earning a lot – best of luck to them. What I do take issue with is
their preponderance for taking industrial action at the drop of a hat.

If bus drivers worked to rule, we’d probably be
hard pushed to notice.

When French air traffic controllers down tools
a large and significant part of Europe’s air space effectively shuts down.

‘Misery at Europe’s airports’ is an abstract
concept you can’t really grasp unless, like me, you were stuck at Palma airport
for much of Wednesday (many people listlessly milling around the terminal had
spent all of Tuesday night there).

What do the French air traffic controllers know
– or care – about people left in limbo by their desire for…what? More money?
Betting working conditions? Who knows?

If the controllers want to convince us of their
case, why don’t they put themselves on the front line at places like Palma
airport to see what effect their work to rule has on the rest of us.

What right do the controllers have to ruin
other people’s valuable holidays? How intolerable can their working life be
that they have to spread misery?

When people achieved the hard-won right to
strike it was to stop children working down coal mines. Now ‘strikers’ plunge
Europe into chaos for an extra fag break.

07 June 2013 11:11 AM

Is the dark night of economic gloom ending: are the rosy fingers of financial recovery brightening the dawn sky? TBH, as we say, not much sign of good times in the UK.

However on the island of Majorca, whisper it softly, but people are betraying gentle optimism.

The economic facts tell their own story. Figures released this week by the Ministry for Tourism and Industry in Madrid show that 1.1 million foreign tourists visited the Balearics during the first four months of this year, 9.6 per cent more than during the same period last year.

In April 633,000 foreign tourists came to the Balearics, 8.6 per cent more than in April last year and, according to the Ministry for Tourism, it is the British market which is making the difference across the country as a whole.

Colourful: Palma, with the cathedral (Corbis)

During the first four months of the year, 14 million foreign holidaymakers visited Spain, 2.5 per cent more than the corresponding period last year.

According to the Ministry’s report, the British market is the most dominant posting growth figures of just under two per cent while the German market appears to be struggling behind the French in third having grown by just 0.8 per cent since the start of the year. The Germans struggling? Fnarr, fnarr…

My easyJet flight to Palma was packed (although I don’t think I’ve ever been on an easyJet flight that wasn’t). By the way, it was my first easyJet flight on which I’d booked (and paid extra for) seats – what joy!

Interestingly Majorca’s revival is being spearheaded by a rash of upmarket hotel developments.

Stunning new five-star hotels like the Castell son Claret, above, (a stone’s throw from the package holiday world of the island’s south west but a million miles away in style) and the new Jumeirah in Soller.

Majorca is the bellwether of the holiday business: when Majorca does well it means very good news for everybody else.

Cue for song: June is bustin’ out all over: ‘You can see it in the trees, You can smell it in the breeze…’